CAN I HAVE A CUP OF FRAZZLE WITH SOME DEMENTIA PLEASE?

I took some Tylenol PM last night before bed and am extremely groggy today. So forgive me if I keep saying things like "I want to eat your face" all throughout this entry.

"Why the Tylenol PM, Bobby?" you ask.

"Maybe because I haven't slept in a real bed since Thursday night, dear reader," I answer in a surly tone.

It seems that Susie thought she developed a chest cold on Thursday. Came home early from work and everything. Come to find out yesterday that this silly diagnosed "chest cold" was actually bronchitis. We found this out on Saturday night when she couldn't quit coughing. Which doesn't sound like that big of a deal. But she got to the point where she was choking and gasping for air, vomiting and turning shades of blue because she could. Not. Quit. Coughing.

That freaked the boy out. I got quite a charge out of it myself.

So anyway, in order to get a decent night's sleep on Friday night, I volunteered to sleep on the couch Friday night. I actually volunteered about 1:30 in the morning because she couldn't quit hacking point blank in my face in her sleep.

Saturday, I woke up sore from the night on the couch. So Saturday night, I laid a flimsy matress on the floor of my office to sleep on.

Sunday, I was in serious pain. So last night, before going to bed on the floor, I took Tylenol PM and muscle relaxers.

Slept like a baby.

And right now, this baby would give ANYTHING to be back on that floor passed out.

For the last 30 minutes, I've been weaving in and out of sleep on the floor and THINKING that I was actually writing this from the floor. I remember looking at the clock 30 minutes ago and thinking that I was typing about jumping off a building for kicks.

The thing started "I'm not big on heights".

I remember that much.

I'm in a weird state this morning.

If I had to put my finger on it, I'd say Vermont.

Speaking of Vermont, check out the always amusing Genghis Jon, who conducted an interview with me last week and posted it on his site.

A forewarning ... it's Uncle Bob at his most Uncle Bobbish. It's not for the weak at heart and devoted Christian housewives.

For those of you who don't mind being offended, check it out.

A whole lot of goofy shit happened this weekend, but I'm too damned tired to go into it.

We went to a two year-old's birthday party. Andrew and I did ... Mom stayed home and coughed up chunks o' lung.

Chunks O' Lung ... the newest Post cereal.

It was a lot of fun ... if you consider having several thousand mosquitos snacking on your legs like an All You Can Eat Blood Fest Buffet "a lot of fun".

Speaking of All You Can Eat Blood Fest Buffets, I'm really tired and out of it.

This entry may go down as one of the more pointless and asinine entries not just in my history, but the history of Diaryland.

There ya go.

Speaking of there ya go, the kid's awake and Mama's comatose, so I need to go get him.

Rawk on.